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Nothing to Talk About

It’s been nearly forty-five years since I was spawned. They pulled me out of a yawning, bloody hole in my mother’s stomach; she likely still has the scar. I suppose it’s time for a mid-life crisis or two. Maybe several, each a spectacular, fiery display of futility. All I’ve done in the way of rebellion so far is to grow a beard. It’s a scraggly thing, but I’m keeping it, because it puts people off.

I didn’t buy a Harley Davidson motorcycle, nor a hi-powered motorboat. I do have a red sports car, but its almost three decades old and it tried to kill me with unintended acceleration the last time I drove it, so there it sits, leaving oily puddles of various fluids on the garage floor.

Speaking of oily puddles of fluids, I haven’t diddled any nineteen year old tight-skinned tennis-skirt brunettes either, well not since I was nineteen or so. Unlike some, I know better than to go there now.

Women worry that they become less beautiful after bearing children, and after bearing the weight of life’s baggy-eyed angst for decades. They worry that men won’t find them attractive anymore. They worry that they don’t look like the nineteen year old tennis-skirt brunettes when they are forty, or fifty, or sixty, and they don’t, and that’s okay; they’ve overlooked the beauty found in depth of experience, and in wit. They’ve overlooked the beauty of compassion which comes, gifted, from time’s faceted diamonds of understanding. It’s a beauty seen in the eyes, and it’s in the heart.

Yes, some middle-aged men, in flailing pursuit of lost youth, will chase young tight-skinned things around, and maybe even catch one if they use the right lure, money usually. But once the sweaty sheets dry, and the pulse settles, they learn that, most times, there’s nothing to talk about; the chasm of experience is too wide to traverse, and when there is nothing to talk about, all there is left to do, is to listen to yourself die.

The clock ticks loudly, and slowly, brash as a guillotine blade falling between the wooden emptiness, drowning the hollow muffle of youth’s daydream banter in its pounding clicks and in its dread-filled pauses, each second, as spent, a lonely reminder of expiry’s nearing proximity, though it creeps without relent, as the slow hand moves ‘round.

A slightly older piece I found. I have writing left all over the place, some lost in the couch cushions, and some under the stove, alongside my lost marbles. I’m moving most of that worth saving to here. Don’t mind me.

Published by

Eric

28 thoughts on “Nothing to Talk About”

I really appreciate this piece and its message. Had a powerful grabbing start.

I have to say that I think men grow more compassionate as they age,too. Although lately it seems like only ones in their twenties are kind to me. Maybe they need kindness too..and I am mature enough to understand.

Thank you, Steph. And I apologize. I found three of your comments in spam, tho they clearly aren’t. I’ll have to start checking there. I’m sorry if I seemed unkind by not replying. I’m not, mostly 🙂 If I can figure out where the other two are, I’ll reply there too. I hope you had a wonderful weekend.

🙂 I’m on my second mid-life crisis, I think. You get used to them, and used to what not to do. As always, your words are widely accessible. You combine erudition and real love of life in one amazing synthesising of realities. You really do love the language. I like that.

Hi Lisa.. You’re welcome, and thank you too. Too many thoughts in my head to comment on all of them, so I’ll wish you a beautiful day. In the end that’s the most important thing I could say anyway. I hope your day is lovely, my friend 🙂

It was actually, quite poignant. My mother in law says, aging is not for sissy’s and it isn’t. It is my estimation that “young” Araceli is apparently not in the realm of understanding what it feels like to grow old. It reminds me of myself when I agreed to go out with a guy in his 30’s. He was handsome, but the first time he kissed me, I opened my eyes and thought, yuck, he’s old. LOL I may have been 20 and a cute little flight attendant in a mini-skirt. My how time flies.
I will say though, being in your forties is not old, but it is the time when one begins to reflect. At forty, I didn’t feel any older than I did in my teens. It was 60 that hit me hard, but I’m over it now. I guess I better, because my next 10 is coming up. O dear. Sigh.

Yes, reflect is correct. There is a lot of that going on. And when I think I’ve reflected on it all, a new lesson comes along and forces a different perspective. All I can ever hope for is getting closer to making sense of it all, but never complete understanding. And eww.. you kissed an old guy.. Lol. Thank you for sharing your comment.. Made me smile. I hope your day is beautiful.

This is a priceless gem. Experience should never be underestimated. You’ve said so eloquently, what many have thought.

Hmmm, at 48, I’ve probably been through the whole sports car, crazy hair, other stuff I won’t mention stage and although I still have the crazy hair, I’m not done yet. I will always opt for good conversation and bed socks over anything else…almost.

I’ve read about your socks, Annie.. I like you 🙂 Thank you, and I’m glad you found some truth of your own in this. That said, my own experience should definitely by underestimated.. I make some spectacular mistakes, still. Maybe I just haven’t paid enough attention 😉

Why didn’t I think of that? Snuggled up with hot cocoa and Virginia Woolf. Little monkeys. I’ll teach them a lesson. I’ll peg them to set an example to the others. They’ll think twice before doing it again.